Once She Was Dead
by Dudly
Summary: There's got to be something happening to Cordelia, after that phone call. Post YW.


**Once She Was Dead**

by Dudly

Post You're Welcome, through Cordelia. And no, I don't own it.

--

She had gotten that weird, unutterable feeling at the pit of her stomach when Angel's office phone rang. Sadness, bitterness, relief, peace, happiness, sorrow, heartbreak—no emotion she could think of matched it, and it took her fading away to understand that, this was it. She was dead.

It shouldn't have shocked her. She had lived with the threat of monsters killing her for a good, what, seven years? She had requested to wake up, knowing full well it would be the last time she ever did. Yet it did shock her, and she stumbled backward, unsteady on her (dead) legs. Her surroundings had blurred; they were now regaining focus. Once they did, there was no more Angel, no more Wolfram and Hart. Rows of people stood in lines, all of various age and various conditions, all dead.

Cordelia strode swiftly to the big doorway in which a fat lady stood. No way was she going to waste hours waiting among corpses. Fortunately, they were all too sad or devastated or simply surprised to take outrage of her cutting the line.

The fat lady, on the other hand…

"You have to wait in line. That's the procedure."

You'd think that, with so much people dying every day, they would have developed a better procedure. Still standing with her 'I think it I say it' philosophy, Cordelia told the woman just that.

"I have a reservation," she added when she saw Heaven's doorwoman narrowing her eyes distastefully at her. "I'm Cordelia Chase."

The lady scowled and Cordelia thought that spending forever simply standing probably had a lot to do with her bad temper (and her obesity, too). That she didn't say. Instead, she gave a small polite smile, hoping to pacify her interlocutor.

Failed mission. "You have to wait in line. That's the procedure."

Cordelia huffed in disbelief (she remembered thinking her life to be a big cosmic joke, but that was just too much). "Excuse me? I spent months in a coma, waiting for death! I think I deserve to go VIP."

"You have to wait in line."

For a moment, Cordelia considered pushing the stubborn lady aside, but decided against it. It wouldn't be proper, and she didn't have the strength anyway. Resigned, she picked the shortest of the five lines, the one with only a few hundred souls. Wished she hadn't when the smell of the guy in front of her caught in her nostrils, putrid and bloody and… Urgh.

The Powers That Be were so going to hear from her.

--

Hours later, she still had a long time to go before reaching that blasted doorway. Rumour was, there was a conflict about whether some guy had the right to go to Heaven or not. Cordelia sighed. Still all about the grey area.

Someone spoke to her from her right. "People are really incompetent here, aren't they?"

It was a woman whose face looked awfully familiar. Cordelia stared and the other continued.

"At the Magic Box, we handled clients within the first few minutes they arrived."

Anya. It was Anya, Anya who had befriended her in high school, who then stopped talking to her, to start dating Xander and almost marrying him years later, years ago.

Apocalypse. Sunnydale. Big hole. Closing the Hellmouth. Cordelia did the math and inwardly groaned. "You waited all this time?" It had been _months_.

Anya shook her head, her expression stern. "No. I waited, then they told me they couldn't decide where I was supposed to go and asked me to wait some more." She paused. "At least they healed me. I guess I should be grateful, since a sword cut me in two, but I feel mostly annoyed."

There was something horribly disgusting in having to wait while being cut open. Cordelia was glad she died the way she had—young, gorgeous, without as much as a scratch. The clothes Angel and Wesley bought for her did wonderful thing for her breasts _and_ for her spirits. A sigh passed her lips, but only so a knowing smile could blossom there. "You'd think that battling evil would get us a small bonus in the end."

"I had Xander and money and sex," Anya replied in her usual matter-of-fact voice. The wistfulness lasted about a quarter of a second before vanishing. Sullen lines stretched her features, and was that a pout? "I didn't have that when I died. I should have skedaddled from Sunnydale with the rest of the town."

Cordelia juggled with different replies ('Yeah, you should have', 'No, no running from the good fight' or even 'At least you get a shot at Heaven, which is a good deal for an ex-demon'). She was going to go with a casual shrug, but Mr. I Smell As Dead As I Look collapsed into her.

Her repulsed yelp and the ensuing commotion interrupted any further discussion.

--

Three hours later, at long last, she was at the front of the line, giving the fat lady a dirty look, one that was flatly ignored. The formal procedure was quick—a hand on her chest, right over her heart, came along with a funny look and a motion to pass through the gate. You'd think that something so very simple would ensue in less traffic.

Behind the gates was…

Cordelia frowned. What was that? If it was Heaven, it wasn't very impressive. The air felt purer than it did in Los Angeles (but then again, LA's stock of oxygen had never been really difficult to top). The place hummed with laughter, but as far as her eyes could see, the place was empty. Full of light, sure, but full of nothing.

Thoughts sailed by in her mind.

_You did it, Cordelia Chase. This is the end of your journey. There shall be no more pain, there shall be no more doubt. _

Those weren't her thoughts. As if she actually used 'shall'. No, she literally soaked into the bliss. Whatever happiness crawled inside her didn't come from her.

Memories invaded her brain, both of the happy and repressed kind. Birthdays with the kindergarten class, riding on her horse Keanu, shopping with her clique for the most expensive and trendy items, all the casualness of her life pre-Buffy. Flashes of horror, monsters, and death came a-knocking, but they were tempered, like a nasty tasting potion with lots of honey. (Or blood with cinnamon, perhaps.)

Something was forcing her to make peace with every single bad events of her life.

Which was so not gonna happen. She had tried being Saint Cordelia, and look where that got her. Her point being that she _liked_ to bitch about bad events. If they wanted to soothe her so bad, they would have to offer many free massages.

Her newfound resolve brought back her irritation full force. "Don't any of you put the whammy on me!" Angel had been Mr Sensitive once, and the effects had been more jaw-dropping than the concept of Spike as a champion of truth and justice. "Don't think I'm just gonna stand here and-"

The change of scenery crashed her trail of thoughts. All anger evaporated, she blinked at the change of atmosphere. And then she stared at the sight in front of her.

Her jaw dropped.

Four feet away, just out of arm reach, one very amused Irish half-human gazed at her with very obvious appreciation. Like he was waiting for her. Which he was, she realized, and she quickly recollected herself, at least enough to stop gaping. Next thing she knew, her arms wrapped around his body and she hugged him hard, not unlike the bear hugs she had received from her boys.

(Gunn, Wes, Lorne, Angel—Angel.)

Doyle beamed at her when she took a step back. "Hey, there, Princess."

She would have kissed him if Angel's embrace didn't burn at the back of her mind. Besides, he looked a bit too short for her usual passionate kissing. (Somehow, his height had faded from Cordelia's memory.)

"Doyle." She reached out, brushed her fingertips across his face. God, his face was so expressive, all happy and smiling. She had missed that. "I missed you."

"Yeah. Right back at ya."

At the end of the day, his life had influenced hers in so many ways—she had become Angel's seer and best friend, had gotten half-demon (and that had been Doyle's job description.) Not to forget that her last steady boyfriend was a half-demon that called her Princess. She thought of telling him all that, but decided against it. Hell if she was going to be sappy and fall into his arms within the first five minutes of their encounter. (They did have eternity, now.)

That left her with a blank in the conversation. She searched for something to say. Doyle beat her to it. "Our man, Angel, he's holding a funeral for you. You might want to watch or something."

The prospect, however abrupt it had come, shouldn't have scared her, so she hated that her face paled or that her eyes grew wide. Had she or had she not astral projected on her birthday? That had been very much like her death unfolded before her eyes.

Cordelia nodded, pushing back the irrational hesitation. She could do this. Heck, she wanted to do this. She wanted to see what clothes, what casket her body would rot into…

"Of course, I'm taping it, so we can watch it later." Doyle had that widening boyish smile again; she just looked at him. "For now, I'm thinking about a tour. Up for it, Princess?"

Her whole body relaxed. Oh, she wanted a tour so much more. "Sounds perfect," she said breezily. "You play useful guide, I finally give you hell for the visions you passed to me, we chat and get reacquainted."

Doyle tried not to flinch and failed. "Sounds perfect."

Cordelia casually linked her arm in his—a thing she hadn't thought she could do anymore, and it blew her mind off that she could, now—and glanced around. She wondered if she looked out of place here. On Doyle's arm. She knew her friends were probably going through her rough time, mourning or stopping an apocalypse, normal every day stuff for them, stuff she wouldn't endure anymore. But she felt fine. Serene. She cocked her head suspiciously. "Do they always try to mess with your mind here?"

Doyle shook his head. "Not really. They just do it at first for your better good, princess. Comfort and all."

"I protested it earlier. What's up with that?"

"Eh, maybe it's not them," he said with a hopeful, teasing grin. "Maybe you're just that happy to see me."

She noticed how he looked like he expected a snappy, tactless reply. Instead, her entire composure softened. "I am." He gave a relieved, happy laugh, and took one step forward. Two dead Seers of the original Angel Investigations walked off.

Somewhere below them, in one of Earth's many countries, the sun was setting.

--

**end**

and yes, I do like feedback. Why, don't you?


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